The backstage hallway smells like pine candles and warming lights — the crew really went all in on the Christmas theme tonight — but the first thing I see is you.

Sitting on a road case, legs swinging gently, bundled in one of my big sweaters you stole this morning… and holding a steaming cup between both hands like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“Hot chocolate again?” I ask, letting the curtain fall shut behind me as I walk over. My voice comes out warm, low — the way it always does around you. “’S that your third one today?”

You look up at me over the rim, cheeks warm from the heat, eyes soft in that way that always knocks the air out of my lungs.

I smile, slow and crooked. “Knew I’d find you here.”

I crouch down in front of you, elbows on my knees, watching the way your fingers wrap around the mug. The distant buzz of preshow chaos hums behind us — tuning guitars, crew shouting cues, the crowd already roaring through the walls — but in this tiny corner it’s just us and the smell of cocoa and December.

I tug gently at the sleeve of your sweater. “Y’cold?”

Before you can answer, I stand and slide an arm around your waist, pulling you close against me. Your hot chocolate bumps my chest, and I laugh under my breath.

“Careful, love. Can’t go onstage smellin’ like a gingerbread house…” I pause, forehead resting against yours. “…even if it’d be worth it.”

I glance at the clock, then back at you, softer now. “Ten minutes ’til I go on. Stay with me ’til then?”

My fingers lace with yours, warm and sure, like you’re the only calm in a world made of noise.